by Tim Allen
She insisted. I resisted. She demanded. I gave in.
Do you know there are really three million two hundred thousand six hundred and twenty‑nine holes in an acoustic ceiling?
Sadly, I've probably ignored how my wife dresses a million times without thinking about it. So now I try to remember that when fm thinking she's pretty I should tell her she's pretty. Guys, don't be lazy about that. If she looks wonderful right now, say, "You look wonderful right now." But be careful, because she's liable to say, "Right now? What the hell does that mean?"
Another rule to remember is never comment on a woman's rear end. Never. Never use the word "large" or "size" with "rear end." Never. Just avoid the area altogether. Trust me. What are you going to say?
"Your butt looks good in those pants."
"Why, is it tight?"
"Yeah."
"So it's big?"
"No, it's just I like the way it looks in those pants."
"Meaning you didn't like it yesterday because it was bigger in those other pants?"
Women always think their rear ends are too big. You can depend on that like you can depend on the morning chubby. There's nothing you can say about a woman's butt that doesn't make her suspicious. There are many theories why, but I'm certain it's because the derriere is a woman's weakest area. She can't powder it. She can't use concealer. It's actually too far away to reach. She can't really see it well, from any angle. It's something they can't control, and they like controlling everything that has anything to do with their appearance.
Men, on the other hand, don't care how their butts look, especially when they go outside in the morning to get the paper in their underwear.
Very few things bother men. Women who don't shave is one. It's too much of a stretch. The guy will start shaving his legs just because someone in the relationship has to be smooth. Women grabbing a guy's love handles is another. Women can be particularly cruel about that. Along with the degradation of a woman's manhandling your spare tire, there's actual pain associated with the pinch. Remarks about a man's skin are another. A girl I danced with once said, "God, your pores are so big!"
I didn't really need to hear that, now did I?
Mostly, women say stuff about washing and men's general state of filth. When's the last time you asked your wife or girlfriend, "Did you shower today?"
Give a woman half a chance and she can shatter a man's confidence in less time than it takes to make love to your wife. And it's always in the form of a question.
My wife does this to me all the time. We're getting dressed for a date and she says, "You're going out like that?"
"No, this is a pre‑outfit. I just wore this to get to the outfit. What do you think I should wear?"
"How about the brown shirt with those pants I just bought you?"
"Yeah, that's what I planned to wear! I just wore this to get to that outfit." Meanwhile, she's changed clothes five times. She should understand.
- -
I've been asked when lying to a woman is okay. All the time would be just fine. As long as you don't get caught. Just don't get caught.
- -
Here's how you can tell when a woman is lying to you: When you so completely believe what she's saying that it doesn't even occur to you to question. That's when she's lying, but it's a catch22. Let it go.
Also, don't believe her when she tells you that you look great in her red cashmere sweater.
- -
To help understand a woman you need to be familiar with how her body functions. Her period is a perfect example of how completely different men and women are. And why we'll never really comprehend them.
The period arrives every month, and each time it's something new. Whatever's happening to their bodies has never happened before. It's relentless. It must be horrible. Of course, I can only judge by her period's effect on me. And they say men are self‑centered.
It starts with, "Honey, fm so bloated."
"Stuffed from eating?"
"It's not like that!"
I guess that if you're not a woman you just don't understand this bloat thing.
"So it's like you ate too much?"
"No! No! No! Look at my swollen joints. Do my ankles look like I ate too much?"
"Well, if you'd eaten a lot on a consistent basis for, say …"
"I'm bloated, you idiot, I'm bloated."
"Like you ate too much."
That did it. Trust me, the only guys who can actually catch flying plates haven't worked since Ed Sullivan went off the air.
As I said, women's difficulties are very frightening. This is probably why men invented the calendar: to keep track of women's lunacy. (Lunacy, from the word luna, or moon-moon, tides, menstrual cycles.)
Maybe a good way to understand each other is to turn the situation around and put men in women's bodies.
"George, do the rough framing on the house today. I'm flowing like a goddamn river. And my tits are killing me!"
"Why don't you try those lite pads from Miller. More bulk, less filling." "I don't know. Jesus, I feel so ugly. And these zits all around my mouth. Do I still look pretty to you, George?"
Professional sports would forever be altered. "You know, Vin, Tony's not playing very well today."
"Yeah. . swing and a miss. . the way he handles that bat, he looks a little swollen around the wrists. . called strike three."
- -
Why do women keep making the same mistakes in love? Maybe because they actually enjoy buying all those self‑help books like Women Who Love Other Women's Husbands Too Much, and Women Whose Husbands Don't Love Them Quite Like They Used To, and Women Who Don't Pay Attention to Their Husbands and Lose Out in Love Because They're Reading Too Many Books About Why They're Not Loved.
Guys read, too. There has never been a cereal box that didn't fascinate me. And you can earn free gifts-even today.
Actually, women are just searching for something, like we all are. A favorite lipstick, a scribbled Post‑it. They want some reason to make love besides hormonal determination. They want stability. They want Fabio (first mistake). They want Robert Redford and Paul Newman (mistakes two and three). They want Marky Mark (a mistake even if he is available). But women are just like guys. They pick out the male Ferrari, occasionally try a pickup truck, and eventually settle in with the family station wagon.
What makes it take so long is what makes it interesting.
I feel a whole lot better now about being a man.
- -
To tell the truth I didn't want to hurt anybody.
I just wanted this other guy's girlfriend because at that point in my life I'd decided it was time to get serious. Casual sex had become meaningless, and I was tired of trying it again and again just to remind myself.
I wanted Eric's girlfriend so bad that I kind of broke them up. I did it for a good reason: He never paid any attention to her. I couldn't figure out why, because when I watched her looking at him, all I could think of was how I wished a woman would look at me like that.
Then we got together and our relationship was not what I had imagined at all. I realized why Eric didn't pay any attention to her: because she was just bothersome. All that staring can drive a guy nuts. I found out it wasn't even staring. She was bewildered. She was in a constant daze. I don't think she could even see me. It lasted about a year. See what happens when you set goals?
I didn't actually break up with her, though. I just made believe she was a newspaper route and disappeared.
Only once did my chicken method of ending a relationship cause me any regret.
I'd been seeing a woman for two years. Her dad was extremely wealthy and owned a national chain of tire stores. Carrie Ann was incredibly attractive and smart. Plus she was born the same day and year I was. For a narcissist, this is unbelievably good luck. It's like a court order from fate saying, "Have sex." It's like having sex with yourself only you're not alone, like usual.
The only problem was that we weren't merging like I'
d hoped. We were both funny, and when we were both "on" it was annoying as hell. We both demanded so much attention. Neither one of us knew when to stop.
When it got too heavy I just left.
Carrie Ann called and kept calling for weeks. But I was sick. I just forgot that I even knew her. It was the only thing I could do, partly because I was so crazy about her. What was I going to say?
Finally, her mom called my mom. My mom always said the same thing when this happened, "I stay out of my son's relationships. I just can't get involved in it." The other mother said, "Well you've got to do something. She's not going to school and she's not eating. For god's sake, this is getting very serious." My mom promised to mention it to me.
All I could say was "Mmm?"
Eventually I gave up my childish ways after being dumped about twenty times myself, and I realized I was just afraid of closure. I had to learn about finishing the job. Women need it, and men have a tough time doing it. (Some women avoid endings, too, but they're usually Playmates dodging Julio Iglesias's phone calls.) Now I know to just end it. Say it. Do it. Be decisive. Women demand that of men, which is good. Stop this bullshitting around.
I ran into Carrie Ann years later, at a party. She was with her husband. He was a nice guy. They showed me pictures of their three kids. Later, when I was about to leave, he rushed over and said, "Look, would you come to our house tomorrow and tell my wife it's over? Because I think there's a part of her that's still pissed." It wasn't really convenient the next day, but I will do it. I will.
- -
A guy knows he's in love when he wants to grow old with a woman. It's when he wants to stay with her in the morning. It's when he doesn't want to leave the house. He starts calling sex "making love," and afterward he wants a great big hug. He loses interest in his car for a couple days.
It's that simple, I swear it. So he does what any decent guy would do. He starts, however tentatively, to think about marriage. And that's when it gets really scary.
wives are women, too
The hardest thing about marriage is staying married. It's got nothing to do with sex. It has to do with money and power. Mostly power.
My mother‑in‑law made me get married. I'd been living with my wife for eight years and one night "mom" says, "I guess you guys are never gonna get married. I mean, you've been through jail together, you're living together, but. . oh, forget it."
"Oh, well," I said, "put it like that and I'll marry your daughter tomorrow."
Actually, I don't know what we were waiting for, except that for a guy it's never the right time to get married. In this case, I think we were both stalling. I'm also a bit suspicious of any two people who don't struggle with that decision. For instance, I can't imagine meeting someone and getting married days later. I don't know how these movie stars do it! Marriage is a big decision. Big enough to procrastinate almost a decade.
Part of my problem was that I was still lusting in my heart after other ladies. But somehow I knew that I wasn't going to find another woman remotely as great as my soon‑to‑be wife. It's a good thing my mother‑in‑law finally spoke up.
I finally gathered my courage one day when we were having a picnic, and popped the question. I also gave my wife a big tourist pamphlet about Switzerland. I wasn't taking any chances.
She said no.
It killed me. I felt sick to my stomach. I lost my appetite. Our dog just stared at me, thinking, "If you're not going to eat your lunch, I will." Finally, I said, "But the Switzerland trip is yours if you marry me."
"Switzerland," she said, "is filled with precise, humorless people.
"Maybe I should have suggested Paris?"
For a minute it seemed as if my change in travel plans would rate a solid "maybe." But she said no again.
When we woke up the next morning, she told me that she'd slept on my proposal. "I guess I was a little rude to you last night," she explained. Meanwhile, I'm figuring I'm off the hook for this marriage thing for at least another eight years. I could afford to be generous.
"I asked, you said no. It's okay," I said. I might have looked a little too relieved because later that day she gave me a little box. Inside was a gold watch. On the back was inscribed: "Yes. I've reconsidered."
I liked the watch, so I did the right thing.
- -
A lasting marriage is like a job. But here's the problem with jobs: They're great when you first get them. Then about a week into it you realize, "There are a few problems here." Then they get repetitious and boring. And pretty soon you think that the guy in the next cubicle has a much better job, which would suit you just fine.
The trick is to get past this.
The first time I dated my wife I envisioned us very old, sitting side by side on a couch. I've kept that picture in my mind forever. When you're old and ugly you're not really in the mood to go barhopping. The person you're with is about all you're going to get. Believe it or not, this can be a comforting image.
Sometimes the urge to merge with someone else really struggles to get the better of a guy. The urge is not unusual. It's not wrong. It's biology. The male drive to inseminate as many young and attractive females as possible before he passes out from skipping lunch is responsible for the rapid spread of our species and its survival. The trouble is that if you're married and you fool around, and your wife finds out, citing Scientific American works about as well as saying the guys in your bowling league all did it, too. Either way, you can end up sleeping in the front yard.
"But, honey, I did it for the sake of mankind."
"I got your mankind right here," she'll say, motioning at her ovaries.
- -
A woman I once dated told me stuff I never wanted to know.
"It was just one football team and it was just one Sunday afternoon."
"Why did you tell me that?"
"I just feel better telling you," she said.
"Right. You feel better. You fool around, you live with it."
"But it's the seventies. We shouldn't have secrets from each other."
"I guess you're right. Here's a few secrets I've been meaning to tell you: I never liked The Partridge Family. I hate the cheesy powder‑blue leisure suit you bought me. And, by the way, we're through!"
I think the lesson here is clear: Football isn't such a dumb game, after all.
- -
I love spicy, rich food. I avoid it because it makes me feel both bloated and about to explode. Similarly, I don't believe that monogamy is a biological truth, particularly for men. But I still don't fool around because my wife would put a grenade in my pants. That's feeling bloated and about to explode.
I think about sex all the time. Still. That's the difficult thing about marriage. And that's why I love discouraging young people with a clear picture of marital reality: "If sex is the reason you're getting married, then you shouldn't be getting married. I wouldn't get married just to have sex with the same person forever. You get married to have a family."
Monogamy is possible. Painful, but possible. After a fast, torturous transition period, during which a guy has to sort out all these issues for himself, things get better and suddenly extramarital excursions are no longer an issue. This happens when we're about eighty. Earlier, if you count the side effects of the antidepressants or blood‑pressure medicine. Either way, this stuff is tough for every man. The lunatic wants to stay loose. But by this age we know the lunatic well. It lives inside us night and day. The lunatic is tired of not having his way. The lunatic just wants to make trouble and noise. The lunatic wants to push us as close to death as possible, and pervert our last few drops of morality for its profane purposes. (Personal reminder: Call Stephen King.)
Now, quick! Get out your pencils and index cards. Here's my secret recipe for fidelity. First: I begin by telling myself I can do anything I want to do. That way, I don't act like a child and do something stupid just because I've been told "no." I don't curb my desire to murder people, either. I just don't do it. I
add just a pinch of control, feel the feelings, let them simmer and evaporate. Never let your oven get too hot. Second: If and when sexual temptation is added to the mix, I can see clearly the right course of action without having my decision cluttered by my natural disrespect for authority. It helps if you season to taste with a woman who can accept that these feelings exist in a man, and if she can coexist with him and not make him feel bad about who he is. Fini! You can serve her that healthy, delicious relationship she thought only existed in cheap romance novels.
But be careful that she doesn't want you to wear blousy pirate shirts and change your name to Rafe.
Speaking of cheap romance, I always thought it would be great to live like an ancient Chinese warlord and have multiple wives. That would solve a lot of problems. If one makes you mad, you run to the other. On the other hand, what if you made them both mad? You're a warlord, for crying out loud. You run to another.
"Honey, I'm home from a hard day slaughtering barbarians."
"Don't talk to me, you armor‑plated goon. Go back to your hordes."
"Fine. Be that way. I'll just go over to Gladys's or Helen's, then."
"Go ahead. You think we don't talk to each other during the day?"
Does sex change after marriage? I take that back. Isn't that the silliest question in the world? Of course it does. Only you don't want to tell your single friends the truth, because then no one would get hitched. And you don't want to think about it much either, because it's just too damn depressing.
The good thing is that reduced frequency just sort of creeps up on you, and stays with you, like midriff bulge. One day your pants are tight, but you know you don't have the time or energy to do anything about it. This is bad, but not as bad as one day realizing, as you're doing it, that two adults crawling all over each other and making funny noises are a ridiculous sight. Somehow you can't quite remember why this stuff ever seemed so damn important, why it drove you nuts and made you do crazy things just to quell that burning sensation.
Don't let this happen to you:
